


behind the scenes

by consumptive_sphinx



Series: D/s AU [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, D/s AU, In-universe slurs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 06:56:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14130555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/pseuds/consumptive_sphinx
Summary: Fingon doesn't actually mind events like these. He knows everyone's looking at him, knows everybody is looking at the Dom in sub’s clothes, wondering why he'd signal that way, deciding whether to speak to him or keep their careful distance, and that's been fine by him for as long as it's been true.





	behind the scenes

Fingon knows he dresses like a sub.

It's one eighth countersignalling (“I don't need to show off that I'm a Dom; I can just be one without having to signal it to everybody, because everyone can tell”), three eighths filtering (people who think that he's lesser for it usually don't talk to him, and so he doesn't have to talk to the sort of person who thinks he's lesser for it), and half just plain liking colors too much to not wear them. But the important thing to know is that it's purposeful; regardless of what Turgon and Fingolfin seem to think, he isn't unaware of what he's signaling.

(Neither of them has ever actually _called_ him a skite, but he knows they think it.)

  


He doesn't actually mind charity galas. He knows everyone's looking at him, knows everybody is looking at the Dom in sub’s clothes, wondering why he'd signal that way, deciding whether to speak to him or keep their careful distance, and that's been fine by him for as long as it's been true.

(He's only ever been _called_ a skite once, but he knows that at least half the room is thinking it. If he cared enough about what they're thinking to let it stop him he’d be wearing navy blue, or burgundy, or black, and not golden yellow.)

He’s always pushed towards the most liberal-minded people in the room — that’s three eighths of the point. At this particular party that means Maedhros Fëanorion, an older Dom who stands half a head taller than Fingon and walks like he has never once imagined the crowd might not part for him. Fingon might have expected to hate him for his confidence alone, but he’s done his research and he knows who was behind the influx of submissive talent into the biotech industry three years ago, and he’s too curious to be annoyed at dominance games.

Maedhros is gorgeous — red hair, bright eyes, brilliant smile. (Fingon did his research, he’s seen the photos, this isn’t news to him.) Maedhros is charming and unfailingly polite; he never looks at Fingon with anything but respect. When he’s asked about _why_ he’s so devoted to his company’s diversity he gives the same sound bite answer every time but when Fingon asks about _how_ and _when_ and _who_ he nearly shines. The way he stands looks formal, authoritative, almost military; his shoulders and back are tense.

And Fingon wasn’t anywhere near prepared to _want_ him so badly.

  


Whatever people might say about Fingon, he isn’t usually attracted to other Doms. Maedhros is the exception, not the rule.

It isn’t that unusual, he tries (and fails) to tell himself. Plenty of people fantasize about gorgeous, older, more powerful Doms kneeling at their feet. It’s not an uncommon power fantasy, it’s not saying anything in particular about him.

The problem with that line of reasoning is that usually it’s a _power_ fantasy, or sometimes a revenge fantasy: you’ve dominated the dominant, ruled the ruler. If Fingon only fantasized about Maedhros kneeling at his feet with his eyes downcast, or Maedhros wearing a leather collar stamped with Fingon’s name, he would call it a power fantasy and not think anything more of it.

This — isn’t that. What Fingon imagines whenever he closes his eyes isn’t Maedhros under his power or Maedhros as his toy, it’s Maedhros taken care of; Maedhros’s head in his lap, his fingers carding through Maedhros’s hair, Maedhros calm and relaxed and sated and safe, with the tension drained out of his shoulders and his eyes closed and not constantly scanning the room. Nobody would ever describe it as a power fantasy, because it isn’t one.

  


It's incredible how well they click together. After a few times of being pushed towards each other at public they can reasonably call each other friends — Maedhros glances over at Fingon across the room when he's talking to someone especially obnoxious; Fingon stands to the side of photographers and makes faces so that Maedhros’s laughter will be genuine, because even his forced smiles are beautiful but the real ones are special.

They spend more time in Fingon's apartment than Maedhros’s. Maedhros is intensely private, doesn't talk much about his family or about relationships even among friends. As far as Fingon can tell his plans for the future revolve entirely around his career.

Maedhros never lets anyone see him vulnerable, and Fingon is just barely an exception. But Maedhros just on the edge of drunk, flushed and smiling with shining eyes, might be the most beautiful thing Fingon’s ever seen.

  


(He isn't — he doesn't — )

(Fingon isn't normally attracted to Doms. Whether you call them skites or switches he _isn't one.)_

(…He still wears navy blue to his next meeting.)

  


And then suddenly everything clicks into place.

It happens when they're at Fingon's apartment, just barely after sundown and after one or two drinks too many, when Fingon asks Maedhros to hand him a glass but it comes out an order instead of a request Maedhros goes perfectly silent and perfectly still.

He's about to apologize but when he looks closer Maedhros isn't angry — his eyes are unfocused, his mouth open, his breathing heavy enough that Fingon can hear it.

“Maedhros? Maedhros, what's —” His eyelids flutter, he looks like he's about to drop, looks like he's right on the edge of subspace “— Oh.”

Fingon watches carefully, watches the flush spread over Maedhros’s face and down his neck, watches the way his chest shudders as he tries to control his breathing. If he's wrong then this will almost certainly destroy a friendship he cares about (but what are the chances that he's wrong?)

“Maedhros,” he says, speaking from his chest, low enough that he can feel his own voice in his sternum. “Kneel.”

Maedhros drops to the floor.

He's on his knees, his eyes closed, his mouth curled into a soft smile that's more open than any other he's ever seen on Maedhros’s face.

Fingon walks closer. “Maedhros,” he says, still low in his chest but soft, asking and not demanding, “why didn't you _tell_ me?”

“Didn't tell anyone,” Maedhros says. His voice is slurred. Definitely subspace. “No one else knows. Just you an’ me.”

 _Oh sweetheart,_ Fingon thinks, and then _Shit, am I already calling him sweetheart?_ “It's alright,” he says instead of either of those. “I've got you, shh,” and he lays a hand on the back of Maedhros’s neck — right at the place where a collar would rest, if Maedhros wore one — and brushes along his cheekbone, wipes away his tear tracks. “Dear heart, darling, I've got you. Tell me everything.”

  


Maedhros tells him everything, of course.

It takes more than an hour and a half. Maedhros stays on his knees by Fingon’s feet for the first hour, then sits on the floor with his head resting on Fingon’s knee, then curls up in Fingon’s lap on the couch. He's asleep now, his head on Fingon's shoulder and his breathing soft and even.

(“Wanted you,” he says, later, when he is no longer crying, “wanted you, wanted to be you. You dressed like a sub, you _could_ dress like a sub — you got away with it, I wanted so badly to be able to get away with it —”

“I wouldn't call what I did getting away with it,” Fingon says, gentle, gentle. _You weren't alone. Nothing was taken from you._

“You didn't care,” Maedhros says. “I wanted to be able to not care.”)

 

 

(Fingon wears emerald green to his next meeting.)

 


End file.
